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[TSR-9537 / Pathfinder] "The Forgotten Terror"

White-hot pain lanced through your back, sliced through your innards, and exploded out your stomache. Pain, like nothing ever-before experienced, suffused your entire being. A scream rose from your breast, but was cut silent by another brutal blow. The assailent, masked though he was, gave himself away with the weapon he bore. Twin snakes intertwined to form the kris-dagger, either tail forming one side of the blade. Between the fanged mouths was a flawless ruby, bloodred, yet pulsating with an inner light. Such was the last thing seen in life.

Or was it? Death had come swiftly, yet through fluttering eyelids came the ruddy-glow of light, of life? Feeling came to fingers and toes, slowly and with an accompanied buzzing sensation. Like awakening from a prolonged slumber, wakefulness was slow to be had. Had death been staved off?

You come to your senses in a place unlike any you have ever seen before. The suface beneath you is a sheet of red glass or crystal, which glows with a diffuse, rippling light. It stretches out of sight in all directions with no visible edge or border. Above you, a black sky devoid of stars, clouds, or other features spreads from horizon to horizon. Vast arcs of crimson lightning sporadically lance across this void followed swiftly by tremendous claps of thunder. These mighty reports cause the ground beneath your feet to tremble, yet no echo is ever heard in their wake. The air around you feels neither cold nor warm and is without scent or motion. Stiffling, the vast openness seems somehow close and confining.

Uncertainty welled within you, Alive or Dead, this place was maddening. Standing their, considering things, the minutes passed - the vastness remained. The region grew niether hotter, nor colder, and no sign of life or visitors became apparent. There is no respite from the endless cascade of lightning and no reprieve from the cacophony of thunder.

Still, not everything remains the same. As you linger in this place, you become aware of a distinct feeling of lethargy and weakness. Is this the result of some outside force or only the lingering effects of your arrival in this strange land? At the moment, it was impossible to tell.

Curious, and wanting for something to stave off the feelings of hoplessness, you set one foot before the other, plodding through the never-changing realm. Before long, it became difficult to say how long you had been walking, as one place appears to be the same as another. Always there is the crimson glow beneath your feet, the black expanse above you, and the eternal cascade of thunder and lightning around you.

Only gradually do you begin to hear a voice. At first, you mistake the faint whispers as nothing more than the fading rumble of thunder. With each passing second, however, it becomes clear that this murmuring holds something more. Someone, or something, is trying to talk to you.

"We are all prisoners of this place. I must serve one who should obey me. You shall be consumed by the land itself." The voice was shallow, and barely above a whisper. It seemed to come from the surface of the ruby, but only followed the rolling of thunder. "Survival is our common goal. We are both in need of allies. As a sign of my good faith, I offer the following advice: Gather the glowing stones of the land. They are the key to both our salvations. I give you the first so you may know what to look for." At this statement, a glossy red sphere appears in your hand, perfectly smooth and the size of an eyeball, glowing with a light which matched the crystal ground underfoot. "In addition to this counsel, I make you a gift. Consider the matter; we shall speak again." The voice died away immediately, though the lightning and thunder continued.

The sphere in the hand brought light to another finding. Wrapped around a finger was a ring of white-metal, like platinum. There was a subtle tugging from the ring, lifting the hand as though to indicate a direction to travel. Without any other recourse, the feet followed the pointing digit. Whether it took minutes or longer mattered not, for the ring's guidance led you to the discovery of others. Each had the same look about them, cast in grey despite the crimson lightning, as though all color had been leeched from them, skin and clothes alike. So too were each seemingly guided by their hands, just as yours had guided you here.

Another tear of crimson rends the black skies above. The cacophony of thunder shreds the otherwise still air. Repeatedly, echo-less thunder and crimson lightning bursts throughout the skies in a torrent. In the moments between, there is only silence.

OOC: You are dead, or are you? Please describe yourself to the others that have arrived at the same spot.
Each PC has the following:
- All possessions noted on PC Sheet (If your PC is incomplete, PLEASE complete!)
- Red Crystal (Sphere)
- "Shepherd" Ring (Leads unerringly to other "Shepherd" Rings)

At first, he thought it must be the world of the dead. But it certaintly isn't a heaven, and he gathers that it's not a hell either, because he has a normal body. Chain shirt armor, shield, morningstar, amulet, headband - all of his equipment seems to be in place. Par Nep runs his hand through his dark hair, confirming that everything is in place. He sits up, then stands to his full 6' height.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Ruke. The boy is still a ghost to him.

Par walks slowly until he hears the strange voice and recieves the sphere and the ring. He studies these, trying to determine what sort of enchantment they bear.

ooc

detect magic, spellcraft +15

"Ruke, I'm sorry you were dragged into this ... but it's good to have company." To most observers, it would appear that the swarthy desert oracle is talking to himself. The ghost rarely replies.

Herbert looked around him, his expression growing more worried by the minute.

'Oh dear, oh dearie me' he kept repeating, unable to understand how one minute he'd been walking back to his small rented office just off Morningstar Way, then felt a sharp pain in his back, and was now here - on this featureless plain.

As if to make sure that the nameless voice who had just presented him with the shining red stone was fully aware of his great distress, he sighed heavily, and with a final 'oh dear' he picked up his small case and began to walk.

After several minutes he realised he wasn't walking in quite the direction he intended; although where exactly he *had* intended to walk was a good question. No, it was as if some hand - likely the hand of the 'voice' was leading him somewhere.

And after what seemed like hours, in the distance he began to make out a figure. Herbert removed his bowler hat and smoothed down his thinning hair with one hand, before replacing the hat, and making sure his tie was adjusted, his jacket was straight, and his trouser buttons were all securely fastened. Standing up to his full height of 3' 1/4", he proceeded towards the figure.

Once he was within earshot, he cleared his throat, doffed his hat politely, and addressed the individual before him:

'Good day, sir. My name is Thistledown, of Thistledown Clock and Watchmakers. I appear to be lost - would you perhaps be able to direct me towards Waterdeep?'

It's not apparent exactly how tall the woman is until she's close . . . close enough that her subtly menacing air isn't quite alleviated by her friendly smile. Shoulder length black hair is pulled back in a ponytail revealing finely sculpted features. She moves with athletic grace, her knee length white robe skirling 'round muscular thighs and the short spear in her right hand swinging in time with her steps but never touching the ground.

Once close enough for easy conversation, she flows to a stop and stands poised on the balls of her feet. Eyes that would be burnished gold in any light but this consider the two before her, and a humorous twinkle further dismantles her intimidating aura.

"By the Dawnflower, I was beginning to think I was alone on this Gods-forsaken plane."

"Every normal man must be tempted, at times, to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats."
-- H.L. Mencken

"Who are..." He looks at the hands of the others and sighs: "Let me guess, you died, stumbled around and heard a strange voice. You will, I guess further, of not much help to explain the situation to me. I'm right?"

He looks curiously on you. He has three rings on his hands, one of the same design as yours. He wears sturdy clothes with many pockets and has a back pack and a bow on his back. On his head he wears a headband with small jewels.

Another woman, human by the look of her, was drawing within accosting distance by that time. She was dressed in a fine cloak of violet, with a thin fringe of some kind of downy fur and that shimmered and rippled like silk. The cowl of the cloak was a darker shade, and was pulled far enough forward so as to obscure the upper half of her face. Her other garments were simple of design if rather elaborate in ornamentation. A cassock that wouldn't be out of place on a country friar if not for its exceptionally fine weave, white color, and arcane sigils embroidered in yellow thread sewed down from each shoulder in a straight line to the hem. Over the cassock she wore a flowing lavender robe, open, made of cloth so thin it was translucent. It too had little arcane squiggles in yellow, around each wrist and around the bottom hem. For all the magical embellishment though, she carried no staff, nor any weapon; not even the dagger common at any willworker's side.

Flying in a complex figure eight over her head was a wingless serpent about the length of a forearm, colored dull grey marbled with veins of sparkling red. Its eyes were red as well, and despite its constant motion it moved its head to keep the others in the assembling group in view at all times.

"Triessa Elrich," the woman said on drawing near...but not TOO near... "I was drawn here by a ring and a voice, but I didn't expect so many. We are friends, I hope?"